


A Toast

by WardenCommanderCousland



Category: Dragon Age (Video Games), Dragon Age: Inquisition
Genre: Drunk Dorian Pavus, M/M, Minor Female Lavellan/Cullen Rutherford, The Winter Palace (Dragon Age)
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-02-21
Updated: 2018-02-21
Packaged: 2019-03-21 23:19:42
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,103
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13751316
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/WardenCommanderCousland/pseuds/WardenCommanderCousland
Summary: Dorian's method of dealing with the drama at the Winter Palace? Getting very, very drunk.Mature rating for exceptionally drunk Dorian and corresponding levels of cursing. Takes place immediately following the events of Wicked Eyes, Wicked Hearts, so spoilers for that, obviously.





	A Toast

Dorian leaned on the railing overlooking the ballroom floor, keeping a neutral expression as Cullen cautiously led the Inquisitor through the ongoing waltz.

“You disapprove?” The Iron Bull loomed over him. Dorian wished the qunari brute would leave him alone, but he’d been even more insistent on making nice since their misadventure in the Fade some weeks back.

“Not at all,” Doiran said, straightening and tossing back what remained of his wine. He signaled to one of the few remaining servants for a refill. “But it is an abominable waste of a fine dance partner for her to be stumbled over by Cullen’s two left feet all night.”

Bull laughed. Its booming echo drew several frightened looks from the courtiers surrounding them. “He’s trying. They both could do a lot worse, especially in this crowd.” He touched Dorian’s elbow, and for the first time, the mage didn’t recoil. “Come on. You need air, not more wine.”

“I prefer the wine.” Dorian said, taking a glass from a passing tray and downing it in one. But he followed Bull through the vestibule to the courtyard where he’d already spent much of the night, when he wasn’t chasing down the shocking amount of other Tevinters at the ball.

The night air was turning cool, but the courtiers were still milling around the fountains and not-so-secretly tucked in alcoves. Typical Orlesians, Dorian thought. Making sure they’re seen _not_ being seen. Obtuse southerners and appalling fellow countrymen aside, it _had_ been a fine night. The wine and food certainly helped, though he’d wished he’d had less of the ham when they explored the servants’ quarters. He hadn’t wanted to know what despair tasted like on the return visit.

Bull scanned the courtyard. “Well, that’s new.” He gestured to a masked woman in the alcove opposite theirs. “That’s the third person I’ve seen her with tonight, and none of them have been her husband.”

“Shocking.” Dorian tried to remain passive, but the wine was going to his head and even the slightest morsel of gossip was going to have him on the hook. And who was better for gossip than a spy?

“It would be, if her husband wasn’t doing at least two of her handmaids.” Bull shook his head at the elf offering more wine, shooing her away. “You really don’t need anymore,” he said when Dorian whined in protest.

“You would if you’d spent the entire night being treated like a cockroach someone accidentally trod upon.”

Bull caste his eyes down on the sullen mage next to him. “What makes you think I haven’t?” He sighed. “Part of the reason I’ve been able to see so much tonight is because the only people who’ve talked to me are members of the Inquisition.”

Dorian didn’t have a response. He pursed his lips and watched a pair of lovers steal towards the lower courtyard. It had been ages since he’d been one of those. And it didn’t help that The Iron Bull, in all his loathesome qunari splendor, had been tempting him, teasing him for weeks on end. Inviting him to his tent, making salacious allusions to alternative uses for his staff and thinly veiled threats of domination.

“Dorian.”

“Oh, just leave me alone, for Andraste’s sake!” he snapped. Dorian stood and stalked back through the Winter Palace to the line of carriages, picking out the Inquisition’s hired livery.

He sulked for the duration of the short trip to Leliana’s “country home,” or whatever quaint term Orlesians used for the palatial estates they never lived in. He barely registered the presence of other members of the Inquisition as he beelined for his temporary quarters, desperate to be alone.

His solitude only lasted a brief moment. “May I get you anything, Master Pavus?”

“Wine. Tevinter, if you have it. Or Nevarran. I’m tired of this Orlesian swill.” These ruddy Orlesians and their insipid masks and their brutish mercenaries who are actually qunari spies. Qunari spies with the audacity to run around bare-chested in all their muscle-bound glory, cleaving their giant axes through all manner of foes with no more effort than a handmaid runs a brush through her hair.

The servant reappeared with the wine, a Nevarran vintage of some acclaim. Dorian took the bottle and waved the elf away with the empty glass. “A toast, to running around with thugs the likes of which would make my mother cry,” Dorian proclaimed, raising the opened bottle to the empty room. He took a long, slow sip, letting the ruby liquid slide across the green glass and down his throat, barely tasting it.

“A toast, to cheating time to stop my Maker-damned mentor from killing some nobody elf. A toast, to that nobody elf actually being someone worth knowing.”

Another long sip. “A toast to Lavellan and her misfit tribe that she saw fit to include me in. To the scariest woman I’ve ever met, including my mother. To Miss Antivan Ambassador Priss. To her Templar, who I can’t believe she’s not fucking yet.”

Dorian took another swig. Some of it spilled onto his tunic. Oh well, it was already red and hideous anyway. “A toast to the Seeker and the nosy dwarf. To Red Jenny and that uppity bitch. To the last fucking Grey Warden in Orlais. To Mr. I’m Too Good for All of You, Just Leave Me to the Fade. To whatever the fuck Cole is.”

The latest sip was more of a chug. “And to fucking the—I mean the fucking—fucking Bull...and his fucking muscles and how they glow with sweat and… _fasta vass_.”

The structure of his last salute slammed into his consciousness. Dorian crumpled to the floor, considering the last mouthful of wine. A large grey hand wrapped itself around the neck, tugging the bottle from his hand.

The Iron Bull sat down on the floor next to Dorian. “Having a rough night?” he asked, eying what was left of the bottle. He titled it towards Dorian. “Here’s to you, you sodden Tevinter bastard.”

He took a long, slow drinking, finishing off the wine and studied the label appreciatively. Then, setting the bottle on the floor, Bull turned to Dorian. He hooked the mage’s chin with a finger, pulling him closer. “Here’s to you, and whatever you think of this when you sober up,” he said quietly. Then he stood, picked up the drunken Tevinter off the floor and set him gently on the bed.

Bull paused for a moment, then brushed Dorian's mussed hair away from his face and kissed him gently on the forehead. "We'll talk about this another time."


End file.
